


A Frary Crummy Valentine's Day

by thanksforthecrumb



Category: Reign (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluff, Valentine's Day Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-13
Updated: 2015-02-13
Packaged: 2018-03-11 04:50:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3314648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thanksforthecrumb/pseuds/thanksforthecrumb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Romantic" isn't really Mary and Francis's <i>thing</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Frary Crummy Valentine's Day

**Author's Note:**

> i would like to apologize for everything basically. this fic, the terrible, terrible title. also i legitimately did not edit this at all so there are probably like ten trillion typos actually idek if i completely finished it yolo

Francis is not exactly the most romantic boyfriend, let’s just get that out there. He is the kind of man (boy? He’s, like, two, basically) who prefers to spend Valentine’s Day sitting on the couch. And Mary doesn’t blame him for that. _She’d_ rather spend Valentine’s Day sitting on the couch. Valentine’s Day is sort of overrated. She’ll take laying on the sofa watching _Friends_ reruns with Francis over receiving a box of Dollar Tree chocolates and equally cheap jewelry any day.

So, yeah, she’s surprised when he comes up behind her and says, “Wanna go out for dinner tonight?”

“Dinner? Like, _dinner_ dinner? Or just, like, dinner?”

He raises his eyebrows for dramatic effect. “ _Dinner_ dinner.”

She shrugs. “Sure. Where we going? Denny’s is open all day, right?”

He shakes his head. “We’re not going to _Denny’s_. It’s _Valentine’s_ Day.”

“Just because it’s Valentine’s Day doesn’t change the fact that I’m a part-time barista and you’re a broke mechanic.”

He rolls his eyes and grins his crooked puppy grin. “My mom knows this great restaurant. It’s really romantic and fancy. She said she’ll cover a hundred dollar tab.”

“But babe, you don’t _like_ fancy food. Remember when we went to that upscale place? You didn’t like the mac and cheese.”

(It should be noted that “that upscale place” was Olive Garden. Francis is not just a broke mechanic, Francis is a _really_ broke mechanic.)

His face grows dark as he remembers. “There were _bread crumbs_ in the cheese. You don’t put _bread crumbs_ in _mac and cheese_. Who _does_ that?”

“That’s why we should stick with what we know.”

“But it’s Valentine’s Day. I want it to be special.”

Something warm blossoms in Mary’s chest then, and she pulls him into a hug, nestling her nose against his soft, curly hair. “You don’t have to eat crumby macaroni and cheese for me. That’s a lot to ask.”

He sighs. “I know. But I love you, and I want to make this year’s Valentine’s Day really nice. I can handle a few crumbs in my pasta.”

“You know it’s not going to be a few. It’s going to be a lot. The fancier the restaurant, the more bread they can afford to cram into the mac and cheese.”

“I know.”

“And it’s probably going to be the really gross bread. The kind that’s all soaked in butter and olive oil. Basically croutons just _stuffed_ into your mac and cheese.”

“I know.”

“I mean, it’s going to be _loaded_ on there. Like, three inches. Maybe even more. It’s going to be—”

He struggles out of the hug. “Do you _want_ to go to dinner?”

Nah, she sort of doesn’t. But she does want to make him happy by thinking he’s made her feel special on Valentine’s Day. Honestly, she doesn’t need a fancy dinner on February 14 to know that he loves her. It’s there, always there, and she doesn’t need roses or jewelry or sweets or stereotypical Valentine’s Day attention to know.

(She doesn’t say anything, though, because she actually wouldn’t mind a box of Dollar Tree chocolates.)

So she smiles and tucks a stray blond lock behind his ear and says, “Sorry. I’m sure their mac and cheese is good. When are we going?”

He gives her a cautious look. “Six o’clock. Mom already reserved the table.”

“Wait, a table for two, right? She’s not…chaperoning, is she?”

“No, no,” he laughs, reaching a hand out to fiddle with her hair. He likes the silky way it slips through his fingers. “It’s just us. She promised.”

“Good,” she says, and lets him play with her hair even though it’ll mean more work later. For someone who claims he doesn’t know how to tie knots, he’s surprisingly good at them.

 

She steps out of the bathroom, nervously fingering the thin gold chain Francis had given her a few years ago. They’ve never dressed up just to eat dinner before, but then they’ve never spent more than fifteen bucks on said meal. And, as Francis has insisted at least four times in the last hour, it “has to be _special_ , Mary.”

He comes out of the bedroom wearing a white dress shirt (!) buttoned up to the throat (!!) and a tie clutched in each hand. One’s eggplant purple with orange and white triangle patterns, the other is a thin black number. He holds them up for her to see. “Which one?”

She tucks his shirt deeper into his charcoal dress pants, eliminating the wrinkles. “What color’s your jacket?”

He gestures vaguely at his slacks. “Gray—It’s so weird. Do people actually spend time trying to _match_ things?”

“Absolutely shocking, I know,” she deadpans, slipping the black tie out of his grip.

His chin dimples a little as he frowns at her choice. “That one’s _boring_.”

“It’s _classy,_ ” she corrects as she drapes it around his neck. She studies the way it hangs on him, the way the matte black contrasts with his pink lips and light curls.Then she whips it off his shoulder and tosses it somewhere in the living room. _“_ And it’s definitely not for you.”

He makes a satisfied noise as he gives her the purple tie. “Are you saying I’m not classy?”

“Do you want to be classy?”

He turns up his shirt’s collar for her as she loops the bright fabric together. “Nah.”

“Good,” she says, poking his chest as she finishes binding the tie.

He smiles as he shrugs into the suit’s jacket, whose cuffs Mary notices are climbing on his wrists. Upon further scrutiny, she recognizes the whole ensemble from the pictures of Francis’s high school graduation, minus the ridiculous tie. (He’d been living under Catherine’s roof at the time, and she had standards.) 

“How do I look?” he asks, tucking his hands deep into his pockets.

“Sexy,” she promises. He’s such a puppy. She can’t really even imagine him pulling off sexy.

He brightens. “Really?”

“Well…no. But you’re really cute.”

“Oh.” He pauses. “I can do cute. I like cute.”

She reaches out to tousle his hair, spurred by intense affection. “I like cute too,” she says, straightening his (somehow already disheveled?) tie. “Especially when it’s on you.”

He beams and straightens her necklace, pausing as his eyes drift down her body, studying her dress and the faint attempts at class. “Hey. You look really good.”

She rolls her eyes, secretly pleased with his assessment. “Thanks. I try.”

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” he tells her, and gives her such a sweet kiss on the forehead that she nearly screams. She uses the tie to pull his lips onto hers and is immediately glad that he’s chosen to wear such a thing. Ties are fun. She feels like a badass, bringing Francis down into a kiss with only a tug at his tie. He’s so vulnerable; she holds all the power when she holds that blessed tie. She keeps her lips pressed against his, keeps her grip tight around the purple material. He should wear ties more often.

 

It takes a while for them to finally get seated once they reach the restaurant. (They spend the time watching the customers, giving them weird names and tragic backstories.) When they’re finally ushered to a table in the corner of the restaurant, Francis is ready to eat about thirty pounds of mac and cheese, and so is Mary.

They sit down at the table, which is at its romantic peak with flickering candles and rose petals (which has to be violating some sort of fire regulation) and a complimentary bottle of pink moscato sitting in a bucket of ice. 

“Ooh, let’s open it,” Francis says as soon as he sees the wine.

“We should wait until we get our food,” Mary answers, trying to be reasonable even though she’d like nothing more than to pop the bottle.

Francis opens his mouth to counter, but a waiter appears at their table. He’s not the same man who’d shown them in. He’s older, less cheerful looking, and with a sharper nose and clean-shaven cheeks. Disappointing. Their previous waiter’s beard game had been on point.

He offers them each a leather-bound menu, the paper inside thick and sweet-smelling, and glides off to the next table with barely a glance at them.

They study the menu, eyes growing wider and wider at the prices. Francis keeps poking her and pointing to funny words, unable to speak because he’s laughing so hard. She shakes her head, leans in to kiss him, and directs his attention back to making up his mind.

“But I’ve already _decided_ , Mary,” he tells her when she reminds him that he should be picking out a dish. “Mac and cheese.”

“I don’t see it on the menu, babe,” she says for what feels like (and what probably is) the hundredth time.

“This is America,” he says. “This country is literally built on mac and cheese. No self-respecting American restaurant wouldn’t serve it.”

“Francis, this is an Italian restaurant.”

“Macaroni and cheese is Italian!”

She rolls her eyes, and the return of the waiter saves her from trying to persuade him to choose a backup meal. He looks between them and pulls out a pad. “Ready to order?”

Francis closes the heavy portfolio. “Right. I noticed it wasn’t on your menu, but I assume you make it, because it’d be crazy if you didn’t—”

“Our menu is very diverse, I can assure you.”

“Mac and cheese,” he says plainly.

“Sir?” the waiter asks, his thin eyebrows bunching together.

“ _Mac_ ,” says Francis, “and _cheese_. Macaroni and cheese.”

“Sir,” the waiter begins carefully, using the deference of the word to mask his smirk, “we do make macaroni and cheese on special occasions. For children, usually. But—”

Francis stares, his clear blue gaze unwavering.

The waiter sighs in defeat. “Mac—and—cheese,” he says, scrawling it on the paper. “Mac and cheese.” He turns to Mary with a sort of pitying look in his eye. “And for the lady?”

She hears a vainly smothered giggle and sees Francis mouth _The lady_. She shakes her head at him, smiling. “I’ll have the scampi.”

The waiter nods at her choice. As he turns away, Francis says, “Oh, also, I have a question about the mac and cheese.”

The man turns back, barely covering up the pained expression on his face. Mary kind of wants to kick him. “Ask away.”

“Are there—” here Francis leans in conspiratorially and lowers his voice—“ _bread crumbs_ in the mac and cheese?”

The waiter blinks several times and gives Mary a look, like _Why would there_ not _be bread crumbs in the mac and cheese?_ She doesn’t return it. He shrugs. “Yes, sir, we make our macaroni and cheese from scratch.”

“So, just to clarify, there _are_ bread crumbs in it?”

“Yes.”

“Is there any way that we could, you know, _not_ have bread crumbs in there?”

“If you’d like me to make a note of that, I can request a dish of macaroni and cheese without bread crumbs.”

“Thank you, that’d be great,” says Francis, offering him a charming beam. It doesn’t win over their waiter, who flashes him a thin smile in return, but it does win over Mary, who reaches across the table for his hand.

“I’ll be back with your mac and cheese,” the man says a bit distastefully.

“What a charming guy,” Mary says once he’s out of earshot.

 

At least two different batches of customers have paid their tab and left, and Mary and Francis still haven’t gotten their food. The bottle of moscato has long been drunk dry, and even Francis is having a hard time thinking up a unique story for Mrs. Black Pepper, the customer seated next to them who—as her name implies—has a thing for black pepper.

Their waiter approaches their table, a look of sincere apology written on his face. “I’m so, so very sorry,” he begins, and Mary’s empty stomach falls. “Your order never got put through. My mistake. It got lost in the kitchen. It’s all been fixed now, but we’d like to offer you a bottle or two of wine while you’re waiting. On the house, of course.” 

Francis points to the empty bottle of moscato. “I wouldn’t mind another of those.”

“Certainly,” the man says, all subservient nods and quick smiles now that he’s screwed up.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” Francis says a bit wryly as they toast with their free wine.

“ _Is_ it still Valentine’s Day? It feels like we’ve been sitting here for months.”

“Yeah, but it’ll all be worth it once we get our food.”

She smiles and squeezes his hand. “You’re so optimistic. It’s cute.”

He wrinkles his nose at her and takes a deep sip of wine. 

“Hey,” she says. “Slow down with the alcohol, mister. We’ve had a lot.”

“ _Maaaary_ ,” he sighs, swallowing, “it’s _Valentine’s_ Day. I’m _allowed_ to get really drunk. That’s the _point_.”

“I know, but you don’t hold it well, and it’s no fun if only one of us is drunk.”

“It is for the drunk person.”

Mary rolls her eyes and holds out her glass. “Fine, just let me catch up.”

He beams at her as he pours, and she has to admit: she sort of likes Valentine’s Day.

 

They’re nearing the three-quarter mark of their third bottle of wine when the food finally gets there. (Mary doesn’t know if the kitchen is really slow, or if they’re just drinking the wine _really_ fast.)

The hot plate slides in front of Mary’s nose, and as she looks up at their waiter, even she’ll admit that he’s more than a little blurry. “Thanks,” she says, and the words melt out of her mouth.

He glances quickly to the empty bottles and then back to her face.

So what?

It’s _Valentine’s_ Day, buddy.

She’s _allowed_ to get really drunk. That’s the _point_.

Just as she’s about to dig into the shrimp, Francis makes a strangled noise. She looks up, and even through her hazy vision she can see him struggling to remain calm. But he’s succeeding, mostly. He’s chewing a bit manically on his cheek, and his eyelids keep fluttering as he closes his eyes.

“Is there anything wrong?” the waiter asks. He looks at Francis when he says it, but he’s really asking Mary, and what he means is _Do I need to get the goddamn defibrillator?_

Francis sucks in a careful breath. “No, no,” he says, in his “calm-but-actually-the-complete-opposite-of-calm” voice. “There are just—there are bread crumbs in the mac and cheese.”

“Oh. Oh my,” says the waiter.

Mary looks around at them, eyes wide, and starts shoveling her meal down her throat. Shit’s about to go down, and she’s eating the goddamn scampi before Francis flips the table.

“I don’t—” he stops, his hand gestures getting increasingly flappy. “I don’t understand— _hhhnm_. I just—the bread crumbs. Why are there—I— _hhngm_. Okay. Okay.”

“I must’ve forgotten to put the special instructions on the new order,” the waiter says after Francis grows quiet.

“Mmhm. Mmhm.”

Mary chews faster, nearly swallowing a shrimp whole.

“Mary,” Francis says, his voice firm, “let’s go. Mac and cheese is not meant to be _trifled_ with.”

She looks at her mostly full plate. She looks at Francis. “Okay.”

He stands, pulls his arms into his jacket, and slaps a bill on the table. “Thanks for the wine,” he tells the waiter. “At least that wasn’t _covered in bread crumbs_.”

“Not your best,” Mary whispers to him as they walk out.

“I know,” he whispers back. As she leans against his shoulder, he turns and strides to their table. He plucks the wine bottle out of its ice bucket and an additional bottle off a recently vacated table. “We are _taking_ this,” he announces to the restaurant.

“You’re so cute when you get bossy,” Mary says.

 

They climb haphazardly out of the taxi, Mary holding the two bottles of wine greedily, even though one’s empty and the other’s quickly approaching the same destination. Francis’s tie has moved from its designated position to the new task of makeshift headband, pushing his curly hair out of his face, the triangle end hanging by his shoulder.

They stumble around their building’s doors, not quite sure if they’re at the right place. But it’s chilly outside, and so they totter in and climb into the elevator. Francis amuses himself by poking every floor’s buttons. Mary can’t figure out why the trip is taking so long. They sing a traditional Valentine’s Day carol while they wait. (It’s pretty much “Happy Birthday”, only with different words and sloppy, drunken syllables.)

It takes them a few tries to get to the right apartment, but somehow Mary wiggles the key into the correct lock, and they open their door to find the lights on in the kitchen.

Once they’ve settled down a bit (and by this we mean “had a few more swallows of wine”), Francis takes a box of Kraft mac and cheese out of the cupboard. “Hey!” he yells. “Hey, Mary, we going to make this? Huh? Mac and cheese! I love mac and cheese.”

“SHHHH,” Mary shushes him, her eyebrows raised as she points to Bash’s room, her other hand smothering giggles. “SHHHH. BASH IS IN THERE. _WITH DOM_.”

Francis puts down the box and listens. Judging by the sound coming from the bedroom, Bash and Dom’s Valentine’s Day is going well. Very well. 

“ _Ohhh_ ,” he says. “ _Shhh!_ I got it. _Shhh_.”

“ _Shhh_ ,” Mary agrees.

They continue to shuffle aimlessly through the kitchen, preparing boxed mac and cheese, the silence punctuated with occasional _Shhhhh!_ s and the imminent giggle fit that accompanies it.

The pasta is cooked in a matter of minutes, and cheesy sauce is added to complete the dish. ( _“No_ bread crumbs, Mary. _No bread crumbs._ ”)

As they sit down to eat their meal, they can both proudly say that it’s the best mac and cheese ever probably.

“Hey,” says Francis once he’s licked his plate clean, “what’s this?” He’s drifted to the small island in the kitchen, where he picks up a large heart shaped box and waves it around.

Mary gets up to investigate. The box is red and fake velvet, and its only identification is a note that says—in the infuriatingly elegant handwriting of Dom— _For my good old-fashioned lover boy_ , which Francis would’ve appreciated if he hadn’t been thoroughly drunk.

As it is, he gasps. “Is it chocolate?”

She takes the top off and he leans in to see what’s inside. They’re rewarded with rows of perfect chocolates. White, caramel, light brown and dark, all with different drizzles and delicious fillings.

“CAN WE EAT THEM,” says Francis.

Mary shoves one in her mouth and he laughs. She can smell the fruity wine on his breath. He rifles through the tissue paper that’s keeping him from the chocolate of choice, pawing after a rectangular sweet.

Soon they’re lying sprawled on the floor, the box of chocolates between them, heads pointing in opposite directions and nearly touching. They’ve decided to eat their way out of the wine-induced fog.

“Mmm,” says Francis, “Mary, try this one. It’s cherry.” He lobs the chocolate over his shoulder, and it lands somewhere by her feet. She opens her mouth to catch it as it hits the ground.

“Where is it?”

“I gave it to you.”

“I don’t have it.”

“I _gave it to you_.”

“I’ll find it later,” she slurs, and reaches between them to grab another chocolate.

“Which one’s your favorite?” he asks as he sucks on a salted caramel.

“All of them!” she declares, nearly hitting his face with her wide, loose gestures.

“Meee too.”

“This is the best Valentine’s Day _ever_.”

“MEE TOO.”

“Hey. Hey Francis.”

“What.”

“We gonna have Valentine’s Day sex after this?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.” She reaches down to brush his hair, knotting her fingers in the curls. She pops another chocolate in her mouth and makes a happy buzzing sound. It’s almond raspberry. She likes almond raspberry. She passes the chocolate along to Francis, who gets it into his mouth after a few tries. He likes almond raspberry too.

They stay like that—spread-eagle on the floor—long after all the chocolates have disappeared, and they’re both guilty of reaching for the sweets out of reflex and, finding none, dropping their palms back to the ground. But soon their hands end up tangled together, and their chocolate-y breath slows, and they’re both peacefully asleep.

See, Mary? Valentine’s Day isn’t so bad after all.

**Author's Note:**

> i have literally never been anywhere fancier than olive garden so i have no fucking idea how upscale restaurants do anything. do they even serve mac and cheese? i don’t know no one knows why did i write this fic


End file.
